


Anew in Rain

by CommonNonsense



Series: Tumblr-Inspired Ficlets [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Season/Series 03, Sherlock is a dramatic gay baby, but after season 3 mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:38:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1693562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock treks through the rain and thunder just to tell John he loves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anew in Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Initially inspired by this Tumblr post, although it got well out of hand. 
> 
> http://nosherlock.tumblr.com/post/84419237087/sherlock-turning-up-at-johns-door-in-the-middle

London is rainy as a general rule, but tonight, it's pouring. The rain falls in heavy sheets, sluicing down the windows and obscuring even the streetlights' orange glow as John looks out to the empty road. London itself is still busy—nothing short of a monsoon would stop its citizens—but the street in front of his flat is quiet. No sound reaches him besides the drumming of the rain on his roof.

It's hateful.

The flat is empty, aside from him. John had tried to take advantage of the fact, making a cup of tea and turning off the telly to listen to the rain while he read a book, but his tea has gone cold and the novel left abandoned by his chair. The flat is always empty and has been for the last two weeks; it's hard to take advantage of normality.

Sherlock would hate it. Truth is, John hates it too, but he needs the time alone now. At least for awhile, until he can get himself back together again without the center of his universe bending him in one direction or the other.

Mary is gone, and John is—okay with that, surprisingly. It's a quiet sort of remorse. There's a hole in his chest he's uncertain will heal for some time, and he thinks constantly about the life he almost had before Mary's lies came to light, but it's not the heavy grief he would have expected. He knows there's an end to it, most likely sooner rather than later. He'll grieve, he'll sort himself out, he'll remind himself a few times of everything that Mary did and how self-destructive their marriage was. Then he'll function again like a normal human being.

It's not like losing Sherlock.

He swallows hard, thinking about the packing he has to do in this flat. Two weeks, and he still hasn't done more than a couple of boxes. Most of the things left behind aren't his so much as they were Mary's, or his-and-Mary's, and he has to stop before he gets far at all.

Sherlock had gotten angry at him for it this morning, on their way back from an overnight case. Sherlock had thought the night out would help John recover; so had John, but the whole thing had been more draining than anything else. The row itself had been on a level John couldn't remember engaging in since before the fall, consisting primarily of shouting at Sherlock. Sherlock, meanwhile, dismissed John's coping mechanisms and demanded to know why he had yet to return to Baker Street instead of moping around an empty flat.

Truth was, John didn't much know, either.

Thunder rolls outside, directly overhead. John starts and looks up, half-expecting the ceiling to cave inward as the rumbles rise to a crescendo and then, almost as quickly, fade out. The rain seems to fall even faster; the droplets shatter audibly against the window pane, only for the noise to be drowned out by the next clap of thunder.

“Jesus,” John sighs, and pushes away from the window to find torches and candles before the electricity cuts out. Then he does a double-take.

Outside, a shadowy figure obscured by the rain is striding across the street. It's out of sight before John can determine if it's anybody he knows. He's thinking of his gun in his bedside drawer when he hears hurried footsteps stomping up the last few stairs, followed by sharp pounding on the door. On a normal evening, John wouldn't think twice about opening the door. Tonight, he's tense and wary, unable to conceive of an innocent errand or visit that anyone would do through this weather. He opens the door with apprehension, only to immediately be flooded with a cold mixture of relief and confusion.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock stands just outside the doorway, soaked to the bone; John can't immediately see a single dry spot on the man. His coat is soaked through, heavy with water and hanging limply from Sherlock's frame. His hair is plastered to his skull and rivulets of rainwater make tracks down his pale face and neck, dripping from his chin and the tip of his pointed nose. Shivers wrack his frame, prompting John to start to invite him inside. Then the morning's anger comes surging back, overwhelming any hospitality he had been feeling.

“Giving yourself pneumonia isn't going to make this morning bet--”

“You misunderstood,” Sherlock interrupts. His voice is thin and quiet, nearly drowned out by the cacophony of the rain.

“If this is your idea of an apology, then I--”

“John, I love you.”

John's mouth clicks shut, trapping his words behind his teeth.

Sherlock waits. He's doing his best to keep a straight face but failing miserably, every bit of his fear visible in the thin line of his mouth and the crumple of his brow. The rain clumping his eyelashes is reminiscent of tears; John has to wonder if there are real ones hiding there.

“I wanted you to come back to the flat,” Sherlock eventually continues, voice breaking, while thunder rolls overhead. “I wanted you to come back home. I'm too accustomed to your presence there, and I thought you would come back after Mary left. When you didn't, I--”

He swallows with visible effort. His gaze drops toward the floor. “I've almost lost you too many times to count. You've always come home first, and this time you didn't. I thought . . .”

John's heart is racing, thudding against his breastbone loudly enough that he's certain it's audible over the rain. Sherlock never says what he thought, meeting John's eyes again after a long moment: miserable and defeated, waiting to be judged.

John takes a deep breath, steps to the side, and gestures into the flat. When Sherlock reacts only with an expression of faint confusion, John says, “Come on. The weather's too awful for you to go back to Baker Street and you're probably already well on your way to hypothermia.”

 

 

John instructs Sherlock to take off his coat and shoes and wait in the living room, then goes to find something dry for him to wear and to start tea. He fills the kettle mechanically, sets it on its stand to boil, and retreats to his bedroom, where he closes the door and leans heavily against it.

Sherlock is in love with him.

It's barely been two weeks since John's ex-wife left, taking his entire life with her, and Sherlock has just trekked here in the pouring rain and is in love with him. And probably has been for months. Or years.

Jesus.

John thunks his head against the door. He has no idea where to begin. It's everything he's ever wanted at the worst possible time. He wants to be excited—he should be elated—but all he feels is twisting guilt and confusion, knotted up somewhere between his chest and stomach. He's never wanted to hear Sherlock's voice so weak and broken--never imagined that if this moment ever came, that it would be when they were both shattered and trying to pick up their own pieces.

He wants this so much it aches, but he can't have it. Not yet. Not while Mary still looms at the forefront of his mind and their lives are still on their way to being righted again.

John breathes deeply and straightens, falling back on old military habits—shoulders back, spine straight, expression carefully neutral. He gathers up some old, dry clothes that will, in theory, fit Sherlock, as well as a handful of towels, and hopes he appears steadier than he feels as he walks back to the living room.

Sherlock has managed to shrug off his heavy coat and hang it on a hook by the door, but the rest appears to have escaped him. There's a trail of water leading halfway into the living room where he stands, shivering, looking around at his surroundings as though he's only just realized where he is.

“Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock starts out of his reverie. He turns back toward John, his gaze immediately dropping. John's stomach gives a twist.

“Come on,” John instructs, pressing the towels and dry clothes into Sherlock's hands before reaching up to untangle the sopping knot of Sherlock's scarf. “Get out of all this and dry off. I'll have tea ready when you're done, and you will drink it or I'll force it down your throat.” He gently unwinds the scarf to soften the harshness of his words, then hangs it up with the coat; neither article of clothing will be dry for two days. He pushes Sherlock toward the bathroom to change, then goes back to the kitchen to finish the tea.

“What were you even thinking?” he calls as he brings two steaming mugs back to the living room. “You could've—called, or something, or waited, with how bad the weather is.”

Sherlock pads out of the bathroom, dressed and with a towel draped over his shoulders. Warmer and drier, he looks a little less like the broken man that stood in John's doorway ten minutes before, but the slope of his shoulders and gait of his walk is defeated still.

“The cab wouldn't take me all the way,” he replies dully. “There was an accident. I had to walk.”

It's on the tip of John's tongue to ask why Sherlock was so desperate to get here tonight, but he bites it back. The words keep dancing around in his head; he still can't decide what to do. He can't even decide how to address it.

“Sit down,” he says, pressing a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands. Then he pauses. Sherlock's hair is still shiny and heavy with rainwater; drops are trickling down his neck and jaw, with one or two making their way down the contours of his face. John sighs.

“Honestly, how did you take care of yourself,” he murmurs. He sets his tea aside and circles around to the back of the couch to stand behind Sherlock as the other man sits. Without waiting for a response or permission, he grabs the towel off Sherlock's shoulders and drapes it over his head. Sherlock makes a dim noise of protest, but is otherwise silent, and John sets about the task of gently rubbing Sherlock's hair dry.

The next minute is silent, filled only with the drumming of the rain and the occasional roll of thunder passing over the flat. It's relaxing, John thinks; their little bubble of domesticity, warm and laced with the scent of hot tea. Or, rather, it should be, but he's still uncomfortably aware and alert, even as he tries to focus on toweling Sherlock's hair into a fluffy mess.

“John,” Sherlock says, and John stops what he's doing to listen. Sherlock's shoulders are a frozen line under John's hands. “If you're going to tell me to leave, or forget what I said tonight, I would prefer you do it now. It would be preferable to ignoring it. I won't take back what I said.”

John swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. Instead of blurting out an answer and stammering his way through, he forces himself to take a deep breath. He drags the towel back over Sherlock's head one more, then lets it fall around Sherlock's shoulders.

“I'm not--” He stops, rethinks, tries again. “I don't want you to take it back. Never.”

Sherlock is unmoving. When he says nothing, John continues on, tentatively brushing his fingertips through the loosest of Sherlock's damp curls. “I'm just—I don't know what to do, is all. Because I love you, too, and I have for . . . awhile.”

Sherlock twists around sharply to stare up at John; John almost falters to the disbelief and hope in Sherlock's wide eyes. “But I can't,” he says. “I can't do this yet. If it were any other time, if Mary hadn't just—then yes, god yes. I wouldn't think twice. But right now . . .”

The guilt reaches a crescendo as Sherlock turns away again, shoulders automatically drawing back up. “I see,” he says.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs. Sherlock is silent. He moves back to stand in front of Sherlock, perches himself on the coffee table, and reaches forward to cup Sherlock's face between both hands. “Listen to me. I'm not saying no.”

Sherlock's gaze flickers up, meeting John's through the dark fans of his lashes. “I just need some time. If I rush into this, I'll just ruin it for us both, but I promise that I want it. I want you. Okay?”

Sherlock's mouth is a tense line. He nods, just once, and John leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead. He tastes rain on his lips as he pulls away.

“Alright?” John asks, giving a tiny smile. Sherlock returns it with a wobbly one of his own, his hands coming up to wrap loosely around John's wrists, cool and delicate. “Good.” John hesitates, considering, then decides to throw caution to the wind just this once. Everything else has to be put on hold for now, but that doesn't mean that he can't have one little thing. “Will you come to bed, then?”

Sherlock's expression turns to one of alarm. “Not for that,” John quickly amends. “Just for sleep. It's late and I'm tired and you're probably tired from walking all the way here. Just for tonight. Tomorrow we'll sort everything out

Sherlock nods again, smile evening out into something more solid. John stands and leads Sherlock by the hand back to the bedroom, giddy with the promise of something new, something he can look forward to even after tonight.

They don't dress down—John because of boundaries, Sherlock because John physically would not allow him to after his trek through the rain—and they get into bed on opposite sides, leaving a foot of space between their bodies. John murmurs a good night and turns his back to Sherlock, ready to sleep.

“John.”

John turns to look over his shoulder. Sherlock is laying on his side, hand tucked under his head, eyes bright in the dim, rain-filtered light seeping through the blinds.

“I'm—I know it will take some time, but I'm glad. That you said yes. I can't guarantee that I'll be as patient as you need, but I'll try.” He swallows with visible effort and waits, his body a thrumming line of tension.

John can't find it in himself to keep so distant after that. He rolls over, arm lifted in invitation; Sherlock immediately scoots in and wraps himself around John, somehow tucking in miles of lanky limbs to best fit into the curve of John's body. John can't help a huff of laughter at the observation.

They fall asleep like that, entwined and buried in an overly-fluffy duvet, not quite managing the “patience” bit but happy nonetheless, while the rain drums overhead.


End file.
